a she-wolf of fang and claw
by Minya-Mari
Summary: The boy is still smiling when he asks, "Then what are you, cousin?" "A direwolf and a princess," she snaps, narrowing her eyes. "What are you?"


_Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor any of the characters therein. I'm just playing with them for a little while._

_**Title:**__ a she-wolf of fang and claw_

_**Summary:**_ _The boy is still smiling when he asks, "Then what are you, cousin?"_

_"A direwolf and a princess," she snaps, narrowing her eyes. "What are you?" _

_**Genre:**_ _adventure/friendship/drama_

* * *

><p>The Red Keep is filled with chatter when Lord Baratheon enters, and Arya's eyes are drawn to the woman at his side.<p>

She's dressed in the black and gold colours of House Baratheon, and Arya thinks that they do nothing to complement her complexion at all; but that is not what catches her attention. It is the fact that this woman is almost an exact copy of herself, only older and less wild. Mother's words ring around in Arya's mind and she fights the urge to roll her eyes. _Wildness is for those beyond the wall_, Arya recites to herself. _Best it be left there_.

Said mother sits to her right, the rich gold and red of her skirts giving her a regal quality. Cersei Lannister is Father's second wife, after the Lady Catelyn died birthing her sister Sansa, and Arya doesn't think that there is much love betwixt them at all. Father sits upon the Iron Throne, a smile Arya rarely sees is on his face as he greets Lord Robert and his wife.

He lifts himself from the seat of swords and embraces the old, fat man. Arya sees Mother grimace and turns her head expectantly, only to have Mother shake her head subtly. Arya pouts, which earns a small smile; job done, Arya turns back to their guests.

The Lady Baratheon curtsies, head bowed away from Eddard Stark's open gaze.

"Lya," he breathes, reaching for her chin and lifting it. "You do not bow to me." The Lady Lyanna then throws her arms around his neck, drawing him into a fierce hug. When they separate, the court goes up into a swarm of whispers-because how inappropriate is it for a sister to hug a brother- and Arya fights the urge to tell them all to shut up; it's the first time in a long while that she's seen her father smile, after all.

.

.

Her aunt Lyanna is much like Sansa, Arya finds, and dismisses her quickly because of it. Someone like Sansa isn't worth knowing; and Mother agrees.

"She is a simpering fool," Cersei Lannister bites out, every inch a Lioness of the Rock. She turns to Arya, a frown marring her features. "And to think; her husband is to be Hand of the King! It's ludicrous. "

Arya nods, letting her handmaid pull out her now-messed braids before irritation at being pampered rises up and she brushes the girl away. She wants out of this form-fitting gown, wishes desperately for one of Rickon's outfits. She'll have to corner her little brother later.

"You should let that girl tend to you more often," Mother says after a time, moving to stand in the maid's place. Her small, dainty hands coming to rest on the smooth mahogany of the chair, the delicate Myrish lace of her sleeves pooling around them. "I'll not always be here to braid your hair, daughter mine."

Arya stills as her mother's fingers card through her wild hair, pulling it back and running a brush over the locks. She winces as the bristles catch on a knot, but her mother takes no notice as she pulls it up and braids it into place.

"The whore even brought her bastard to court!" Mother continues, aghast. Arya scrunches her nose up in the mirror, eyeing her mother. Lyanna Barartheon is still her aunt, after all, and looks so very much like herself that she can't _not_ take offence.

"If I had a drunkard like Lord Robert for a husband, I'd bring my bastard to shame him." Arya says in return, thinking of all the rumours of all his bastards scattered across Westeros, pity welling within her breast for her aunt. "Gods know he has enough for every Lord."

Mother smirks as she settles the braids into place, tucking a few locks behind Arya's ears. "Yes," she agrees, smile brilliant but brief in her reflection. Her chin is resting on Arya's shoulder, her temple barely touching the side of Arya's face. "But it isn't proper."

Arya snorts. "Since when has anything in this country been proper, Mother?"

Cersei laughs, a warm sound that her daughter cherishes. Her golden locks are a stark contrast to her dull brown, and when seated next to her mother, Arya Stark doesn't feel pretty in the slightest.

Mother sees her look, and presses a kiss to her cheek. "Come, dearest," she tells her, offering a hand and pulling Arya to her feet. "We have a feast to attend."

Arya may have had one too many cups of wine, though if asked, she'd deny it vehemently. If Sansa can have more than three, why can't she?

Another set of footsteps has her whirling around, teeth bared much like her direwolf locked up in the pens.

The man who stands before her is barely that, his curly black hair and long face is so much like her own that she knows he has to be one of Aunt Lyanna's sons. Arya grips the railing behind her, tilts her head in such a way that Mother had taught her. Giving him a haughty look, Arya snaps, "What are you doing here?"

The boy scoffs, put out by her attitude. "A Lady shouldn't be out here all by herself," he says by way of greeting and Arya scowls through the fog the wine has placed over her.

"Good thing I'm not a Lady then." Arya retorts, and this earns her a startled laugh.

The boy is still smiling when he asks, "Then what are you, cousin?"

"A direwolf and a princess," she snaps, narrowing her eyes. "What are _you?"_

That wipes the smile from his lips very quickly, something dark overcoming his features, and Arya almost regrets the words she's spoken.

His words are low and carefully worded she finds, as he says, "A Storm or Snow, depending on who you ask."

Arya frowns, letting go of the bars behind her and stepping forward. What was Aunt's bastard's name? "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

The boy shrugs, slim shoulders rising and falling with much more elegance than should be allowed. "You're drunk," he says, grey eyes teasing. "I doubt that you even know what you meant."

Arya ignores the jab, and reaches up to tug on a lock of his hair. "I think you're a direwolf." The words are truth; he looks entirely a Stark despite whoever his father was. Arya nods to herself, and grins as she remembers his name.

"When Robb becomes King, I shall ask him to legitimise you, I think." Arya steps back, hands twisting in each other. "Jon Stark."

Jon gives her a funny look, but says nothing much else as he helps her back to the hall.

.

.

Stafford Baratheon is pompous and annoying. Arya is told by Sansa that she should be grateful to be courted by such a man, to which Arya retorts that if Sansa thinks him so nice, mayhap she should be the one courted.

Sansa and Arya have never really gotten along, Sansa being too much a Lady and Arya too much a boy to ever see eye to eye.

But yes, Lord Stafford. Arya would rather be courted by Walder Frey.

"Now really," comes a familiar voice. "Isn't that just a little over exaggeration?"

She must have said that last part aloud. Damn. Arya turns to face Jon, a sheepish grin on her face. "Your brother is rude without even meaning to be," she says, feeling a need to explain herself. "I don't like him at all."

Jon lets out a laugh, moving to ruffle her hair. "He's _not at all like you_, cousin."

Arya scowls and pushes his stomach, Jon laughing all the while. "At least I sometimes hide my rudeness behind sarcasm, stupid."

Jon snorts at that, and takes another half-hearted slap from her. His grin widens as he points just behind her, saying, "Oh look, here come my brothers now."

Arya deadpans him, but quickly spins around to face her guests. Stafford, Gregory and Rickard all look, for the most part, miniatures of their father; all of them bar the youngest bear the dark hair and blue eyes. Little Rickard is around Rickon's age, but he's built like Lord Robert and looks much older for all his Stark colouring.

Arya curtsies just like her mother taught her, keeping her head bowed as she greets them. "My Lords," says she as she straightens, and Lord Stafford bows to her in return.

"Your Highness," he greets, and his younger brothers murmur things similar. Lord Stafford is not by any means ugly-he is just Sansa's type-what with his straight teeth, strong jaw and muscled arms, but Arya is put off by him. He's too pretty, too nice and she doesn't trust the truthfulness of it at all. "I was wondering if you would accompany me for a walk around the gardens?"

Arya almost scrunches up her features at the request, but a nudge from Jon stops her. Collecting about her all of her demure niceties, Arya smiles apologetically. "I'm afraid that I can't, my Lord," she says, lying through her teeth. "My dancing teacher is expecting me any minute now, and I really must be going, you see."

She can feel Jon laughing at her side, and throws a neatly concealed elbow to his ribs. Lord Stafford shakes his head, waving in front of him as if shooing something away. "You needn't worry about dancing lessons, surely, Your Highness?"

Arya's hackles rise instantly, and her smile disappears. "How dare you presume to know what I should and should not concern myself with, Lord Stafford." She snaps, fists clenching into her skirts. Jon has fallen silent and still at her side, a wall of heat to her left. And then, because she is every inch her mother's daughter in spitefulness, "I was being polite when I said I had dancing," she grits out and she can see a smile forming on Jon's face from the corner of her eye. "You see, I simply am not interested in being courted by _you._ Now_ leave_ _me alone_."

Gregory and little Rickard are trying to hide grins, and Arya smiles at Lord Stafford's now-red face. Arya curtsies once more, mutters, "My Lords," and turns on her heels for the Throne Room.


End file.
